Chapter 14
It took Ben a moment to get his bearings when sunlight first pierced his eyelids the next morning.
He’d gone to sleep in his bed last night, the same way he always did. However, his mouth was dry, filled with an odd taste. His limbs tingled but also felt oddly constrained. And his pulse thrummed a beat or two more quickly than usual, almost as if in anticipation. In warning?
His eyes flew open, falling upon the sight of his fully clothed body sprawled across the dirt-stained counterpane.
He hadn’t washed properly last night. Hadn’t even brushed his teeth.
Instead, he’d tumbled into bed wearing his muddied shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, which was how he remained now.
Another cockstand poking through his damaged fall.
He scrambled upright, memories of all the events that had led to this moment inundating him like a deluge. The injured palm, the argument, the erotic recitations, the breathless moans.
Hellfire and damnation.
His gaze darted to the wall between the master’s and mistress’s chambers—the bit of wood and plaster that kept his wife just out of reach—and a sharp blow swiftly pummeled him in the gut.
The connecting door between the two rooms was open. Not shut and locked the way he always left it, but inched open.
He sprang from bed to fetch his banyan, his mind racing backward to the moment he’d discovered Violet missing last night. Yes, he had opened the door to check for her, but he’d closed it again afterward. Hadn’t he?
Well, no, perhaps not. But even if not then, he’d surely done so later in the night. Or if he’d neglected the task, Violet would have remembered. Right? Yet sunlight streamed directly onto the polished wood and illuminated the space where the door stood ajar.
God, did that mean … could Violet have seen him?
Heat flooded his face, creating a fiery prickle that spread down his neck.
He tried to focus on other possibilities: Violet had opened the door at dawn to check if he was awake.
Achilles had nudged it with his nose. A draft had blown it askew in the middle of the night.
Were any of those likely alternatives to the scenario he’d first imagined?
He supposed there was only one way to find out.
Wrapping the banyan tightly around his body, he gave the door a single tap before easing it the rest of the way open and peering inside. However, the only person to greet him was the chambermaid in the midst of making Violet’s bed.
He halted and cleared his throat, uncertain if the muscles clenching in his chest signaled relief or disappointment. “Where’s Mrs. Prescott?”
The maid stared at him a beat too long but ultimately dipped her head. “Last I saw, she’d just finished breakfast, sir. I believe she was preparing for her daily promenade.”
Damn, how long had he slept? He was accustomed to rising with the sun, keeping his days ordered and productive. But this was no time to focus on the position of hands on a clock.
He made a gruff noise of acknowledgment and hastened back to his own chamber, very certain to close and lock the door before shedding his banyan.
Then, he cast off the rest of his sorry clothing, rummaging in his clothespress for replacements to make him look presentable again.
It was impossible to fully return to a state of refinement without the proper bath and shave he needed, but he forwent both in the interest of time.
Confronting his wife may not be easy, but it was necessary. And he didn’t have a moment to lose.
By neglecting pomade for his unruly hair and tying the knots in his cravat not quite evenly, he made it downstairs just in time to encounter Violet in the entrance hall with Achilles at her heels.
She was adjusting a vibrant crimson shawl about her shoulders and murmuring something to the dog when his footsteps caused her to look up.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him, not unlike the chambermaid’s, but at least Violet didn’t appear openly repulsed. “Good morning.” It was hardly the warmest greeting he’d ever received, but neither did it contain outright contempt. “We’re just leaving for a walk.”
Achilles’s tail swished eagerly at the word, and while he trotted over to give Ben a polite sniff, he then returned to wait by the door beside the mistress with whom he’d apparently found favor.
Ben swallowed, willing his voice not to crack. “I’ll come with you.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“I don’t.”
Her brows scrunched, her hands going to her hips. “What about breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.” Indeed, how could he care about food when his wife was ready to abscond yet again with everything between them still jumbled and unresolved?
At its core, the matter went far beyond the unlocked door and what they’d each heard or seen.
He owed her an apology for his behavior earlier in the evening, and while he may have been too addled, too frenzied, to address the situation last night, with morning light came clarity. A little of it, anyway.
She let out a long sigh, not trying to hide her irritation. “Very well.” Her pert chin bobbed. “But take care to keep up.”
He hurriedly accepted the invitation, however unenthusiastic, following her brisk footsteps as she strode outdoors and turned toward the back garden.
Her face was pinched, her gaze remaining far in the distance, refusing to drift in his direction even the slightest bit.
But at least they were here, together. That had to count as a small victory.
Ultimately, he let her take the lead, slowing his footfalls to match Achilles’s tottering pace and keeping at her back. They needn’t speak immediately if she wasn’t ready. He could be patient.
He passed the time staring at the figure in front of him.
Brilliant golden hair pinned neatly beneath a straw bonnet.
An airy white dress, decorated with tiny embroidered flowers, that wafted behind her in the breeze.
Dainty gloves, flawless except for a faint bulge in the left one that must be covering the bandage on her palm.
She’d put herself back to rights, so bright and lovely it was difficult to envision her as being dirt-stained and battered mere hours ago. He did envision it, though. He imagined the weight of her body as he’d cradled her in his arms. The softness of her ungloved hand as he’d wiped it clean.
His musings risked driving him to distraction again until, with a sharp jolt, he discerned the path on which she led him.
They’d skimmed past the formal garden and gone down to the river, but she didn’t stop there.
Instead, she continued her path into the woods, heading toward Watley without missing a beat.
Just as he’d seen her do on countless days prior, as if not a thing in the world had changed.
He and Achilles followed—doing otherwise wasn’t an option—but his throat became acrid, and tight bands constricted his ribs. What was the meaning of this? After the incident with the guard, and her avowal that she had no interest in going to Watley, she couldn’t possibly intend to—
She whirled around to face him, the shrewd glint in her eyes daring him to question her. To his benefit, perhaps, he was so taken aback by her apparent ability to read minds that he neglected to turn his thoughts into an interrogation.
Yes, his speechlessness was a fortunate thing, indeed.
For after a single moment’s pause, she pivoted once more, taking a sharp turn away from the double-trunked oak that marked the property line and striding north.
Not east to Watley, the way he’d always imagined her doing.
She started up an incline, along a faintly marked path through the trees he hadn’t noticed before.
Whether or not he followed didn’t seem to concern her.
His boots froze to the ground beneath him, his jaw slackening as the meaning of what he witnessed hit the surface of his awareness. Permeated. Then besieged him with a hot torrent of remorse.
There was no getting around it: he was a dunderhead. Inventing false scenarios in his mind, accusing her of wrongdoing because he hadn’t been clever enough to imagine anything but the most nefarious possibilities.
He jerked himself back into motion, ignoring the heaviness that settled into his limbs and starting up the path before he could lose sight of her.
While the surroundings remained unfamiliar to him, she forged ahead with more speed than ever, dodging tree trunks and hopping over felled logs as if she’d traversed these woods all her life.
“I regret to say, your master is an ass,” he muttered to Achilles, hefting the elderly dog into his arms so he could spare the creature’s legs on the slope.
With that, he tramped up the hill, keeping his eyes on her crimson shawl until the trees thinned, the ground leveled, and an open field appeared up ahead.
She bolted into the clearing, and he found himself running after her, faster and faster until he burst from the shadowy maze of oaks and into the brilliant sunshine.
They’d arrived in a large swath of grass, liberally sprinkled with wildflowers and with a single prominent beech tree growing in its midst. A picturesque sight, although it was merely a precursor to the scenery beyond.
From this vantage point, they had an unobstructed view of all the fields and pastures, all the low stone walls and tiny cottages, below.
Everything gleamed beneath the morning light—green, crisp, and vivid.
It was laid before him as pristinely as a painting, this land he’d been charged with overseeing, that was so far removed from London but could be his home if he accepted it.